She crosses her arms and looks me over like she’s checking for loose bolts. “You’re not the only adult in this. I can bear weight. Houston can. Salem can when he isn’t trying to blow up a wall to see what happens. You don’t have to carry all of us to the finish line.”
“I know that. But I’m the one who does everything?—”
“Then go sleep. Go get a massage. A facial. Go ahead and be the guy who does everything, including relaxing. Including not blaming yourself for your grown-ass brother’s shortcomings. I don’t know how to make you internalize the fact that how he turned out is not on you, but it’s not. Now, go do something nice for yourself.” She points toward the elevator. “March, mister.”
I nod and turn to go. Then I stop and look back because I want to end this day saying a thing out loud. “I thought maybe we could fix him. After today, I know we can’t. I’m going to stop trying tofix what isn’t mine. I’m going to fix the studio. I’m going to fix the plan. I’m going to keep you safe.”
“While you hold the whole world on your shoulders, go to the damn spa.”
I snort at that, then salute her. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am!”
She closes the door. I listen for the lock and I walk back down the hall. She’s right. I need to relax. Not usually a word in my vocab, but I need to make time for it.
To the spa.
Relaxation is weird. It doesn’t suit me. I’m in a hall wearing a plush robe with a glass of cucumber water in my hand—pretty good, not gonna lie—and listening to pan flutes on the overhead speakers in a dim room with too many plants. Candles flicker on the counter. The air smells like lavender. I’m between treatments. The facial was bizarre. She poked and prodded my face, then massaged the hell out of it. My skin feels smoother than ever, and I don’t know if I like that.
Next up is the sports massage. Not sure why it made me feel better to book something with sports in the name. Leftover masculine bullshit, probably. But The Chocolate Fairy Massage sounded a little too something to me. Delicious, but too something.
A woman steps out of her massage suite, bliss clear on her face. She hugs her massage therapist. “That was incredible. I have never been this relaxed in my life.” As she passes me in the hall, the air fills with cocoa.
I can’t help myself. “The Chocolate Fairy?”
She practically purrs. “Oh yeah.” She keeps walking.
My massage therapist pokes her head out. “Mr. Turner, are you ready to relax?”
“I am.” I set my glass aside and follow her into the even darker suite. “Before we get started, can we switch from the sports massage to The Chocolate Fairy massage?”
She beams. “Of course. I need an extra minute to set up, but I’m happy to switch the massages.”
“Perfect.”
When it’s all over, I’m not relaxed. I’m giddy. There’s no other word for it. I had no idea I could feel this good without drugs or sex. I swear, it’s like my feet had orgasms. What the hell?
“Where has this been all my life?”
My massage therapist—Tia, as it turns out—laughs. “Right here, waiting for you.”
Maybe that’s true of relaxation as a whole. I dunno.
I dress and pay and overtip, because Tia more than earned it, and head back upstairs. I take a long steamy shower, because for once, that actually feels good. In bed, I let the day run once more so I don’t wake up with it half-chewed.
The picture of the hallway silhouette tries to install itself in my head again. I say no. I replace it with the console with the board up and the glass back, and our mother sitting behind it, arms folded, waiting to hear the take. I replace it with Lou at the table, drawing a grid. I replace it with the four of us in the room with the door locked because we locked it, not because we were trapped. I replace it with Tia’s hands and the scent of cocoa.
I am not trapped by my responsibilities. This is my life. I am not Troy’s keeper, not his dad, not his fixer.
I feel solid for the first time in a long time. Not because the threats are gone. They aren’t. Because I have a plan and a team and a partner who will tell me when I’m wasting my efforts on the wrong fire. I don’t feel like I’m the only adult in the room. I don’t feel like I’m covering for a child in a man’s boots.
I am not alone in this. I have someone I can lean on. Someone who gets me. That’s all I’ve ever needed, and I never even knew it.
19
HOUSTON
I booka table at a quiet restaurant in a hotel on the Strip. White tablecloths. Real candles. A piano that plays low to allow for intimate conversation. Lou is in a black dress and kitten heels because she’s practical. I like that about her. I like that she smiles when she sees me and then checks the exits without thinking. I do the same out of habit.
We sit near the window where the lights look like a screensaver. The server knows how to pace a meal. Water shows up before we ask. Bread is fresh and warm, the butter whipped. We order fish and a salad and a side of fries because fries make a night easier, or so Salem says. Cell phones are out of sight, but we talk about work first because it’s the least dangerous topic that still matters.
